


Pest Control

by Tridraconeus



Series: Pest Control [3]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Blowjobs, Body Worship, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Crossfaction, Enemies With Benefits, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Light D/s, M/M, Manhandling, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Size Difference, Trust Issues, hatchet wounds, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: “Pest,” Evan snarls, and lifts him out of the alcove by the back of his jacket. It’s more familiar than he’d like, the way he falls into Evan. Drapes over his shoulder andpurrs. The snarl fades away as Evan hauls him toward the manor. Evan’s not always in the mood to mess around— Jake’s learned that through trial and error.Heisin the mood to mess aroundnow.
Relationships: Evan MacMillan | The Trapper/Jake Park
Series: Pest Control [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1768081
Comments: 103
Kudos: 306





	1. Pest Control

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot be blamed for wanting soft things.

“Pest,” Evan snarls, and lifts him out of the alcove by the back of his jacket. It’s more familiar than he’d like, the way he falls into Evan. Drapes over his shoulder and _purrs_. The snarl fades away as Evan hauls him toward the manor. Evan’s not always in the mood to mess around— Jake’s learned that through trial and error.

He _is_ in the mood to mess around _now_. He holds Jake by the thighs, one arm pinning him to his broad shoulder. They pass through the stately MacMillan manor into a familiar room, traps and tools hanging on the walls. Toolboxes. It’s the Holy Grail that Jake used to steal from when he felt bold enough. 

He stopped doing that when he started fucking Evan. A trade, maybe. Maybe not. He has plenty of toolboxes and the Fog gives them up to him readily enough. 

Evan jostles him and brings him back to the present. One of his hands is enough to circle Jake’s thigh. Both can circle his waist entirely; it makes his belly flip with anticipation. Evan lifts him from his shoulder by the back of his trail jacket and sets him on his back on the workshop bench. 

It’s clear. Clean. There’s a rag spread flat underneath Jake. Evan knew he was coming, predicted it, got a space _ready_ for him. Evan gets in his head and knows what he’s going to do, what he wants, makes him pay for getting complacent and lazy in trials but apparently _rewards_ him for being a needy bitch outside of them. Jake’s played right into his hand. 

Evan holds him down on his back with one broad hand on his belly, under his trail jacket. Evan’s palm is calloused and warm and he doesn’t give Jake even an inch to squirm, fingers digging the barest bit into his ribs. 

“Evan—” 

He tries, though, wriggles under the implacable weight until Evan grips one of his ankles and folds his knee to his chest, pushes until it aches. Leans in close until Jake feels hot breath on his cheek, hears it rattle around behind the mask.

“Settle. Settle down.” 

Jake would normally chafe against the growled command, but he’s so hot with need it just makes him flare with want instead of indignation. He’s painfully, obviously hard in his cargo pants and he knows Evan can feel it. He wants it, so he settles.

They’ve done this enough times that Evan knows what to do. He releases Jake’s ankle to delve inside his pants, going for the rightmost pouch. There’s grease there that Jake usually uses to lubricate difficult joints in gens. With Evan, it has a different use. With the tube in hand he wastes no time in yanking Jake’s pants and underwear down to his thighs in one fell swoop. 

He almost hisses at the sudden drag of fabric; holds himself more tightly than that. Evan’s massive hand settles on the slight swell of his ass and pulls him apart without hesitation or delay, and Jake props his feet up on Evan’s broad chest to brace himself.

The prickling, warm feeling of being inspected makes his gut roll and arousal flare in his belly. His cock is laying on his thigh, completely engorged, but he knows better than to touch himself. Evan’s in charge here. 

Evan unzips his trail jacket and rucks his shirt up until Jake’s belly is bared. He knows he’s scrawny. Starved, even, because living in the woods is not the kindest life he could have chosen. He knows that Evan likes it; how comparatively small he is. The wiry, whipcord strength that can’t do anything against Evan’s pure brute strength. Despite that, how much trouble he poses to Evan's carefully-laid plans-- traps, as it may be. 

He arches his back. Evan immediately traces the line of a bare, straining rib, drawn to the way it presses against his skin. _Yeah_ , he loves it. Sometimes sleeping with Evan is like walking down a flight of stairs and missing the last one. Tripping, catching air, tumbling. Evan’s always there at the bottom. Nobody knows Jake as well as Evan does and it’s primarily to catch him in bear traps, but right now Jake doesn’t care about that. His mind is stuck on Evan’s touch. 

His hand is so damn _huge_ against Jake’s middle. Thumb stroking his ribs like he’s a housecat. Calloused palm pressing his cock against his belly, giving him a rub. He’s gracious and generous with touch. Maybe not always where Jake wants it, but _there_ , and Jake never has to ask. 

He takes initiative and kicks his pants and underwear down his legs, toes his boots off, they fall down onto the floor with a heavy clunk and an answering whisper of fabric. He breathes out long and slow when Evan draws back to take his mask off and hang it on a hook next to some pliers. 

Evan’s handsome. Used to be handsome. He has a square jaw, piercing and intelligent eyes, heavy and arched brows, lips a severe line, nose somewhat lopsided from having been broken. He’s scarred all over. Jake doesn’t even _know_ if he’s attractive or not but chooses to believe that he is; he’s so fucked up that Evan’s breathing changing a specific way under the mask makes his dick stir, sometimes. 

He’s not a looker either, he reminds— reassures— himself. Evan doesn’t like him because he’s attractive.

Evan doesn’t like him at all, he revises, and forces himself to be satisfied with that as a rough sweep of Evan’s hand over his chest knocks thought from his head. 

They kiss. Jake’s never been much of a kisser. He worries the spot on Evan’s lip where he’s missing a chunk of it, sticks his tongue in Evan’s mouth ungracefully, mouths at him and scrapes him with his teeth, and Evan lets him. Gentles him with a finger pulling at his lip-- to mind his teeth. Jake gets in one last good nip and minds his teeth.

The first time had been exactly what he expected— rough, hard, cruel. He’d snuffled a bit but not cried after, not while Evan was _there_ , and Evan had left him terribly torn up inside because they hadn’t used lube. It had been a rush of red-hot emotion. They’d ripped into each other. It took him ages to hobble back to the fire, and he’d bled.

The second time was different. Evan had been painfully slow, undressed him all the way, put him on his belly over the kitchen counter and left Jake waiting for the other shoe to drop until they both came, messy and sated. Petted and rubbed his back, the knobs of his spine.

 _Get out of my house_ , he’d said both times. Not the third time. The third time he eased Jake onto a couch afterwards and gave him a half hour. Let him leave on his own time. 

This time, he’s spreading Jake open on one thick finger, just making sure to coat him with slick and see if he’s relaxed enough to take him. Jake, of course, is. He spreads his legs wide and gives Evan space to slot between them, pulling Evan close with his legs. The hot, round head of Evan’s cock nudges his hole, and everything on and around him is just _Evan_. It’s gloriously simple. He should feel trapped— Evan is huge above him, still holding him down with one hand and guiding his cock into Jake’s hole with the other— but he doesn’t. 

Evan’s _cock_ is huge. Jake’s hole stings and aches as he’s breached, spreading open around the intrusion. It feels like Evan is punching out a hole inside of him, boring into him, the thick, hot drag of Evan pushing in to the hilt teetering on the edge of _perfect_ and _too much_. Evan doesn’t waste time. The slide is slick and easy, Jake isn’t in any acute discomfort, there’s nothing stopping him from fucking his brains out.

There’s a few experimental pushes into him, drags out, excruciatingly slow, but finally Evan hits his sweet spot and the steady drag turns from heat and discomfort to bright, sparking pleasure. Jake tilts his head back. Drops his jaw, like he’s screaming, but no noise comes out. Evan fucking loves it. He digs his face into the bare stretch of Jake’s neck and presses his lips there, against the pulse point, because he’s still too much of a gentleman to bite. He keeps his hips as they are and drives into Jake, hits him ruthlessly and precisely and makes him jerk like a worm on a line with how _intense_ it is. Inescapable, but slow. It’s agony.

Evan has changed, Jake accepts reluctantly, unhappily. He wouldn’t have ended up beneath him like this if he _hadn’t_. The Evan that wished a permanent injury on him and the Evan that’s holding him down, crushing him without hurting him at all, are entirely different people. He seems older, almost. Like he’s grown into the role. The thought that Evan has _grown_ and _changed_ and he can’t detect any change in _himself_ is unpleasant. Evan’s the real master of his manor out here in the twisted woods and Jake’s still fucking around with his traps to get his attention. 

It works, but the thought stings. Jake doesn’t _want_ attention from anyone, or at least that’s what he tells himself. He digs his nails into Evan’s shoulders and squeezes him around the middle with his legs. Evan pulls out of him almost all the way, the slow drag of his cock against Jake’s insides making him arch his back and press back against the workbench. 

He’s close. It’s pitiful how close he is. He hasn’t even touched himself— aside from Evan nudging his cock, it’s been ignored. 

“Fuck me,” Jake urges, mashing his mouth ungracefully against Evan’s, eyes half-closed. He wants Evan to touch him; the thought of taking the situation into his own hands, as it may be, is completely out of his mind. 

“Patience,” Evan replies, _hushes_ him, a small _shh_ noise against his jaw, because he’s cruel and Jake hates him. Jake knows that begging won’t do anything. When Evan’s got it in his head to do something, there’s nothing Jake can do to deny it, or speed him up, or do anything to win any relief beyond what Evan wants to give him. It’s easier, maybe, to pretend he doesn’t have a choice. He hates it-- being vulnerable. Spreading his legs for Evan. He’s never once refused it. Keeps coming _back_. 

“Evan,” he pushes anyway, whining, tries to spur Evan into giving him more.

He doesn’t. Jake isn’t surprised. Evan has one hand on his hip, the other cradling his cheek. He doesn’t even need to give Jake more-- he’s going slow, but hard, and striking Jake’s sweet spot perfectly every time.

He comes messily over his stomach, untouched, Evan hilted solidly in him and staying there thick and undeniable as Jake’s twitching cock spends itself and Jake similarly twitches, helpless and worn. 

“What a pretty sight,” Evan rumbles. Jake can’t feel it but knows that Evan is emptying himself in him. He’s flushed at being called _a pretty sight._ His legs are so tense and tight that he’s shaking, he finally notices. He’s fucked stupid; following Evan’s touch like a starving man as Evan dips a finger into his mouth. “You like that?” 

He must be _smiling_ , or something. How else would Evan know? He closes his lips around Evan’s finger. It tastes like salt, skin, sweat. Sucks him, watches dark heat and interest flare in Evan’s eyes. Eventually, though, he withdraws his hand, pats Jake’s cheek and smears him with his own spit.

“Pretty,” Evan continues, still so easy and generous with all the things that wear Jake down into nothing. “Pretty little boy.”

Evan pulls out of him and his hips jerk at the sudden sore tug. He scoots himself back on the workbench, the rough texture of the rag better than hard wood but only barely. Props his heels on the edge, drapes an arm over his belly, reaches for a corner of the rag and wipes himself off with it. He’s breathing raggedly. Evan lets him. Tucks himself away.

“Up you get." One thing Jake isn’t sure he likes or not is how comparatively tender Evan can be after. He fucks hard and without mercy, but when Jake is limp and fucked out sometimes Evan will be almost kind to him. He gathers Jake in his arms, uncaring that Jake is dripping cum from his ass to the floor. Jake shivers, but is silent. They end up at the couch and Evan sets him down, sits down next to him this time, pulls Jake’s legs up on his lap. 

_Get out of my house,_ Jake wants him to say. Evan puts a proprietary hand on his calf. Rubs his thumb in a circle. Rumbles out “ _settle,_ ” instead, and Jake settles. Breathes out slowly. His knee twinges, but it’s easy to ignore and soon enough the ache is soothed away by the warm weight of Evan’s palm. It’s strangely nice-- just being there, worn and sore, being petted. He drifts off, listening for Evan’s breath.


	2. Live Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evan’s large enough to pick him up with one arm, Jake’s back resting against his shoulder while his legs hang over his forearm. It’s a close thing, though, and Jake grips his shoulder with unsteady hands.
> 
> “Damn saboteur,” Evan mutters. He brushes chunks of sweat-slick hair out of Jake’s face with his free hand. Tilts his head in the way that says he’s searching out Jake’s eyes. “You’re a damn fool, Park.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realized I like writing Jake realizing someone cares for him and immediately going “don’t like that shit” way too much.

He wakes some time later, half-curled up alone on the couch. He pads into the workshop to retrieve his clothes, silently redress, and take a look around in case there’s something he _really_ wants, really can’t resist. A shallow dish filled with socket swivels holds his attention and it would be _so_ easy to slip a few into his pockets, but he doesn’t, even though Evan wouldn’t even miss them. 

He pulls his scarf up over his mouth and nose, slinking outside instead. Evan’s likely in a trial, or else patrolling the grounds, because he isn’t in the workshop and wasn’t with Jake when he woke up. He isn’t sure how to feel about being mildly disappointed that he wasn’t. 

Evan has more important things to do than watch him sleep. He shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the first place. 

He eases into the trees, into the thicker Fog, and slips away. 

*

Evan’s large enough to pick him up with one arm, Jake’s back resting against his shoulder while his legs hang over his forearm. It’s a close thing, though, and Jake grips his shoulder with unsteady hands.

“Damn saboteur,” Evan mutters. He brushes chunks of sweat-slick hair out of Jake’s face with his free hand. Tilts his head in the way that says he’s searching out Jake’s eyes. “You’re a damn fool, Park.” 

_Park_. If Jake wasn’t so out of it he’d be surprised, more surprised than he manages— Evan doesn’t call him _Park_. Just _damn pest_ , or _damn saboteur_. His breathing is loud and ragged. He can’t quiet it. It makes fear rise in him, raw and sour, stinging his mouth. 

“Hm. Inside with you,” Evan finally says, voice low. It manages to jar him out of his agonized, dazed train of thought and back into what’s happening _now_. He’s clinging on, body tight and shaking, but his hands are too weak to dig into Evan’s shoulders. “In trouble, are you,” Evan continues, speaking evenly and lowly to him, keeping his attention now that he’s got it. “Come to me for help, haven’t you.”

Jake doesn’t know if it’s threat, chastisement, _fondness—_ he can’t decipher Evan’s tone with how much pain he’s in. 

He should have gone to the campfire, but when he was stumbling through the Fog he’d felt that the MacMillan Estate was closer, and he shouldn’t have come but he’s hurt, and he can’t think, and Evan hasn’t hurt him yet. 

Evan sets him down in the workshop, on the worktable, tugs his scarf off, unzips his trail jacket and divests him of it. The shirt follows suit. It has to be peeled off of him and Evan finally, carefully, shears it off as strips and scraps of fabric and sets it to the side. It’s tacky with sweat and blood. It hurts. He bites his bottom lip so hard he tastes blood and grits his teeth until his jaw aches. The hatchet wound on his back is still bleeding and he spots a shiny green-grey fluid riding the top of it when Evan withdraws his hand. He lays over the worktable, pliant and trembling. 

Evan steps away and returns a few moments, maybe a minute, later. He has a wet rag in his hand. He maneuvers Jake as easily as he would a doll, braces him against the worktable with a knee to the seat of his pants and tugs him up with a hand on his shoulder. The rag is a cool and incalculable relief against his lacerated back, immediately soothing the searing throb. He shudders. Evan’s hand is steady and bracing on his shoulder, effortlessly holding him up. 

Evan works in silence. When the rag is soiled he sets Jake back down on his front and leaves again, returns, resumes the same position and wipes him again. Jake doesn’t know how many times he does it. He, himself, stays silent. He zeroes in on the sensation of Evan’s warm hand on his shoulder, the press of his knee, the worktable digging into his hips.

When he’s decided that he’s finished Evan turns him around, inspects his condition with a critical eye, bends down slightly to pick him up. One hand on his upper thighs, hefting him, the other just below the angry gash between his shoulder blades. He’s held against Evan’s great chest. His head rests on Evan’s sternum. He can hear the steady thump of Evan’s heart, feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. He hangs limply, letting Evan carry him like that for what can’t be longer than a minute before he’s being set down on his front on the couch. Evan arranges his arms so his head is resting on them and fixes his legs so both are slightly off the couch, as to not leave mud and blood on it. Jake watches his back as he leaves the room.

It won’t be forever. The Entity gets bored, or forgets, and the toxin will drift from his blood, the injuries will seal up once he returns to the campfire. His entire back feels like it’s engulfed in red-hot flames, which is still somehow better than it was. 

Evan returns with another wet rag. He drapes it over Jake’s back and leaves again. 

He stays there, shirtless and shivering on the couch, for at least a half hour. The pain abates in degrees. It becomes manageable. It becomes negligible. His back is sore and achy and moving pulls it and hurts, but he can move, and that’s all he really wants. He drapes the still-damp, bloody cloth on the low coffee table next to the couch and stands. 

Evan’s in the workshop. Jake finds him with little effort or fanfare and stands in the doorless entrance. Evan is a boulder of a man, a behemoth, sitting down and working carefully on a trap. Jake can hear the click of wire being cut, the slight twinging noise of springs, his habitual destruction in reverse. Evan is not facing him, and does not turn to look at him, and indeed does not pause at all in his diligent repairwork like Jake isn’t even there at all. 

Jake’s trail jacket is hanging on the corner of the worktable, the scarf a messy mound above it. His blood is still there. The fabric will be scratchy and stiff, he knows, but it’s long stopped being something he especially notices. 

His shirt had been peeled off of him in bits. It’s unsalvageable. It’s a heap of bloody, poisoned fabric. 

Evan has moved them, but only to hang the trail jacket and scarf where Jake might easily steal them back without attracting much notice, only to sweep the scraps of his ruined shirt out of his work area, like he knows Jake will want to take his leave without saying goodbye. 

Why did he come here, instead of the fire?

Because the estate was closer, he tells himself again, and now that he’s not in such pain he’s noticing the cracks in his reasoning. Because at the estate Evan might let him crouch, and hide, and rock silently in agony as toxin ravages his blood? Because Evan might tolerate his presence long enough for him to gather his wits? 

Because on some level he’d expected Evan to help.

And he _had_ helped, evidently without the expectation of something as simple as thanks. A bitter and unpleasant taste rests on Jake’s tongue. It’s not that he’s ungrateful. He’s _not_. He’s just very unused to thanking people, and has not _had_ to thank anyone for the longest time, for the slightest reason. 

Evan sits there patiently undoing what very well may be Jake’s work. He still has not acknowledged Jake’s presence. Jake leaves his trail jacket, his scarf, and the ruined shirt where they are. 

Leaves, himself, without a second glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! I love hearing what people think! And I love this ship. A lot. Too much in fact.


	3. Catch and Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s like he’s got an orbit, Jake supposes, that sets him on a collision course with Evan every now and then. Like Evan is some cold and distant planet and he’s a similarly cold and distant comet streaking through, and past. Jake’s relatively sure people in Evan’s time knew that the planets orbited the sun, but history’s not his strong suit.
> 
> And Evan, in kind terms, is not the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jake goes back to get his shit and gets SNUGGLED ON THAT COUCH  
> also wow another non-e rated chapter, I'm losing my touch. Oh well! I want soft

It’s like he’s got an orbit, Jake supposes, that sets him on a collision course with Evan every now and then. Like Evan is some cold and distant planet and he’s a similarly cold and distant comet streaking through, and past. Jake’s relatively sure people in Evan’s time knew that the planets orbited the sun, but history’s not his strong suit.

And Evan, in kind terms, is not the sun. 

Jake had eased himself into spare clothes when he returned to the campfire. They’re a gray, long-sleeved shirt and a dingy green hooded vest jacket. It’s tolerable, but he misses his scarf, misses being able to hide his face. 

Since stumbling onto Evan’s doorstep and collapsing they’ve had three trials together. Evan acts like nothing happened. He always does; Jake likes that about him. He doesn’t give Jake special treatment or try to make him double-cross the others. It’s like he’s got two very distinct boxes in which Jake fits into; one, in trials, where he kills him, and one outside of trials where he fucks him instead.

No box for cleaning his wound. No box for carrying him inside, chiding him, calling him _Park_ and holding him against his chest. No box for _that_. 

It makes him feel strange and unbalanced and unhappy, so he decides to stop thinking about it. 

He ends up at the estate again before their fourth trial together. After it. _It_ , because Jake can’t bear to think about Evan’s hand on his shoulder. It makes him want to cry out and shrink away like a small, fearful, wounded thing. 

He doesn’t disarm any of the traps he sees while making his way to the manor. He gives them, at most, a cursory looking-over and decides how exactly he would go about disarming them and then he continues on. 

Evan is not there when he reaches the manor, and normally that would be his cue to leave or else fuck around until Evan returned, discovered his fuckery, and made him pay for it. 

He goes inside instead even though he’s typically all too happy to pay the price. The house is aged and stately. It doesn’t smell at all like what he can remember of his new-money childhood home, like cleaning agents mixing awfully with wall-plug air fresheners and the sharp edge of new furniture that has never been sat on. The Park house is ugly and sleek and modern and intimidating and so, so huge and lonely. The MacMillan Manor is better, even dusty and old as it is. 

He slips inside the workshop. His shirt is gone, burned most likely, but his jacket and scarf are hung on a hook that usually holds tools. Jake lifts both up and off and avoids dislodging the tools, as well, eyes the damage to his trail jacket and decides that it’s salvageable, then slinks off to the couch. He sits down, drapes the jacket over his knees, pulls his sewing kit out of his vest pocket— a gift from a trash can in Haddonfield— and sets to mending the gash. 

Some time passes before he picks up the muffled, distant thud of footsteps in the hall.

“Saboteur,” he hears from behind him, even and low. He doesn’t know why he expected— was looking _forward_ to— _Park_.

Evan sits down across from him on the large armchair on the other side of the coffee table. Jake continues to look down at his mending until he’s reached a satisfactory place to pause, then gathers the bundle of fabric in his arms and stands. Evan seems almost like he’s expecting him to leave; stays still, silent, _stiff_ when Jake paces around the coffee table instead and situates himself in his lap. He spreads his jacket over his knees again and continues to mend.

They’re not used to this, either of them. They’re used to brief, violent touch; brief, meaningless sex. Something changed that night when Evan cleaned his wound. 

Evan clears his throat. “Saboteur,” again, pressing and expectant. He hasn’t called Jake a _pest_ yet, but Jake hasn’t really made of pest of himself for a while, either. Evan’s hands remain on the armrests of the chair. Jake grabs one by the wrist— Evan allows him to, allows Jake to move his hand as he pleases— and sets it on his leg. Evan rearranges it, resting on his hip. 

He finishes mending his jacket and tosses it carelessly to the coffee table, closing the sewing kit and tucking it back into his pocket. He turns, knees digging into Evan’s thighs until he’s kneeling, straddling him. He steadies himself with hands on Evan’s arms— both on his hips, now. Without asking Jake reaches out to ease Evan’s mask off. He’s more careful than he needs to be, lifting it and setting it on the arm of the chair, lips quirking up as he meets Evan’s eyes. Dark brown, sharp, studying him. Jake’s never liked making eye contact. With Evan, he can manage stretches of five or seven seconds at a time before the contact prickles, burns, becomes unwelcome and uncomfortable and he looks away. 

He leans in. Closes the distance, kisses him. Evan’s thumb rubs circles on the jut of his hipbone. If Jake was a less kind man, he’d make fun of him for how much and how _obviously_ he loves how slight Jake is. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs finally. His lips brush the side of Evan’s mouth, the scar there. Deniability? Plausible, but Evan’s sharp and there’s no getting anything past him. He grumbles, low in his throat, and pets Jake’s side. He wasn’t _expecting_ thanks. Jake would be lying if he told himself he’d given it wholly because he was grateful. Half of it is, as always, wanting to see Evan’s brows knit. His mouth opens a little bit when he’s surprised. When he’s thinking hard, or angry, or determined, it’s a hard, flat line. Jake invades the split of his lips again before he can say anything, warmly amused. 

Evan’s hand drifts lower, cupping the slight swell of his rear. Jake smiles against his lips. It _is_ what their relationship is founded on, after all. He arches into the touch, nipping Evan’s bottom lip, and spares a thought to reflect that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make my day! Tell me what you thought! I need more people in this ship haaa


	4. Stray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You used to be such a wild thing,” Evan murmurs to him, a heavy hand on his hip. He thinks Jake is asleep; his tone is undeniably fond, and hesitant in its softness. Unused to it. Jake might have been uncomfortable at how openly gentle he’s being, but he’s _supposed_ to be asleep and it doesn’t bother him as much as he expected it to. “Now look at how tame you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally there is no excuse for this. I want soft.

“You used to be such a wild thing,” Evan murmurs to him, a heavy hand on his hip. He thinks Jake is asleep; his tone is undeniably fond, and hesitant in its softness. Unused to it. Jake might have been uncomfortable at how openly gentle he’s being, but he’s _supposed_ to be asleep and it doesn’t bother him as much as he expected it to. “Now look at how tame you are.” 

Again, he reminds himself that he’s asleep and offers no reaction; he’s rewarded with Evan’s hand stroking up his back and settling in his hair, slowly carding his fingers through the unruly mop, and that forgives being called _tame_. Forgives the trap Jake’s dug himself into of being unable to raise his hackles and protest. “My dear pet.” 

He hums, then, clearly thinking over the address. His thumb rubs a circle on the nape of Jake’s neck.

“You’re not a pet though, are you. No. Not my little saboteur.” 

That’s closer to what Jake is used to. Evan’s low voice rumbles to him in the quiet of the room. If he’s not careful, he really _will_ fall asleep as Evan tests out pet names. It’s not the first time he’s been allowed in Evan’s bed— the third or fourth, actually— but it is the second time Evan’s stayed with him instead of immediately going to do something else. Jake laying on him _would_ make it fairly difficult for him to move without disturbing him, though, so Jake can’t say the choice is entirely on Evan’s shoulders. 

Evan hums, deep in thought as he studies Jake’s hair, wraps a chunk of it around his index and lets it fall just as slowly. Jake feels the steady rise and fall of his chest, the tempo of his breathing, the constant rhythm of his heart. Evan is so large that Jake is capable of laying entirely on him, which he has done to some measure of success. 

“My beloved,” Evan murmurs, petting Jake’s hair. Jake’s not so sure about _that_ one. He’s never been someone’s _beloved_ before. Still, there isn’t an ounce of mocking in Evan’s tone and Jake’s forced to accept that this is genuine. He doesn’t have time to decide how he feels about that before Evan cups his cheek, palm rough and warm, and returns to running fingers through his hair. 

“My little wild thing. My dear, clever raven.”

Jake sighs and turns his face to the other side-- relieving a crick in his neck. Careless of him, but-- he hopes-- easily excused as sleepy shifting.

“Saboteur?” Evan goes quiet after that, hand stilling like he’s afraid Jake will flee when he figures out that he’s being held and petted, but Jake stays where he is. Breathes out slowly. Gives no indication that he’s heard, and after a few long seconds Evan’s hand once more curls in his hair. Strokes him behind his ear, thumb laying along his jaw. 

“My little saboteur,” Evan settles on, and there’s a chance he says any number of other things after, but Jake drifts off before he catches them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> help. help. help . h  
> Comments and kudos appreciated! I love hearing what people think. I'm suffering.


	5. Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll suck you off if you let me take the hatch,” Jake offers. It’s brash and graceless, but he knows Evan doesn’t like him for his _grace_. The big man stares at him; his cleaver held loosely at his side, head tilting ever-so-slightly in predacious interest that sparks butterflies in Jake’s belly. He doesn’t advance on Jake any further, and he keeps his weapon low, so Jake chooses to take it as an invitation to approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bastard evan returns

“I’ll suck you off if you let me take the hatch,” Jake offers. It’s brash and graceless, but he knows Evan doesn’t like him for his _grace_. The big man stares at him; his cleaver held loosely at his side, head tilting ever-so-slightly in predacious interest that sparks butterflies in Jake’s belly. He doesn’t advance on Jake any further, and he keeps his weapon low, so Jake chooses to take it as an invitation to approach.

One step. Two. Dry grass crunches under his feet. Loose dirt kicks up and settles on his boots, his cargo pants. 

He’s never given Evan oral before. He’s considered it, of course, because he is very intimate with Evan’s cock and has grown to be of the opinion that it is a _nice_ cock indeed, but he doesn’t need to inflate Evan’s ego any larger than it already is. 

He pads up until he’s within arm’s length— Evan’s, not his own, preparing to skip away and set off through the maze if Evan decides he’d rather take a swing instead— and stands there for a moment, and when nothing happens his gut twists in excitement at the same time his shoulders lose a deal of tension in relief. 

At the same time, Evan standing so still and patient sets alarm bells to ringing in Jake’s head. It’s like he already knows what Jake will do and just has to wait for him to do it; Jake curls his lip, draws close enough that his chin and throat form a smooth line to look up at the baleful grin of the mask, puts his hands on Evan’s waist to brace himself. He can feel Evan’s breathing now, steady and deep underneath his palms, not just hear it.

Evan won’t strike him down while he’s sucking his dick, Jake is _relatively_ certain, it doesn’t seem like the type of fair play that Evan’s fond of and he hasn’t even raised his cleaver while Jake has been within easy carving proximity. He eyes the glinting, bloody hunk of metal and drops to his knees. The ground is hard underneath him and his injured leg twinges but it’s easy enough to ignore it. Over time, it’s stayed painful, but a more tolerable pain, and in trials it’s nothing compared to being carved open or stabbed. 

Evan’s hand immediately cups his cheek, thumb bridling him at the chin. He turns his head to first one side, then another, and his thumb pushes between Jake’s yielding lips to nudge his teeth; his tongue, when Jake drops his jaw to allow him inside. Evan’s thumb in his mouth is a heady tang of blood and sweat. He smears his taste over Jake’s tongue, drags his thumb across the roof of Jake’s mouth. Jake makes eye contact with the dark pits of the mask, hollows his cheeks, laves his tongue over the digit he’s got trapped in his mouth. Digs his teeth into the joint so Evan huffs at him and tugs his hand back. 

Evan doesn’t make a move to disrobe himself at all, so Jake figures _he’ll_ have to do all the work. Fine. This _is_ him earning the get-out-of-jail-free card that the hatch represents. Evan hasn’t verbally agreed to it, hasn’t even nodded or reacted past _not_ striking Jake down, and Jake knows there’s always the possibility of Evan letting him do as he may only to hook him after, but…

That’s something to worry about later. He searches out the fly, digging his hand into Evan’s waders and undoing the internal button. The gap is large enough for him to stick his entire hand in up to the wrist, crowding it between the material of the waders and Evan’s skin. He’s like a furnace with how hot he runs. If he was like this in the real world or if every bit of his body was changed, even his internal temperature, to make him better withstand the oft-bitter cold of the Entity’s realm, Jake isn’t sure. 

He curls his hand around Evan’s cock, finding it half-hard but rapidly growing in interest, and shuffles closer on his knees. Pushes his face into Evan’s thigh to hide a smile, nudging up until he feels the hard lump of Evan’s arousal and his own hand on his cheek. He’s rewarded with Evan’s hand on the back of his head. It’s nothing more than light pressure— he’s only barely holding Jake there, and it’s less commanding and more secure, and Jake _wants_ to balk at the authoritative display, but there isn’t much he can really do.

He fishes Evan out of his waders instead before he’s so hard it would be awkward. While Jake’s not opposed to making a fool out of Evan, that’s not the point here. Evan’s hot and heavy in his hand. Jake’s never actually sucked anybody off before— wasn’t that adventurous in high school, didn’t have many friends let alone people who wanted to _sleep with him,_ and then he lived in the woods, and now he lives _here_. He’s sure Evan will forgive his lack of experience.

He thinks back to the last time he watched porn— god, what was he, sixteen? Six years ago? Longer, technically, but it feels like at least a decade he’s been here but he hasn’t changed significantly since then-- and lets the foggy memory guide his actions. What the fuck’s he supposed to be doing? He gets the vaguest sense of it— at some point, he is going to put Evan’s cock, or at least as much of it as he can manage, into his mouth, and tongue and toy at him until he comes, and if he’s done a satisfactory job there’s a chance Evan will let him slink off to find the hatch— but that leaves a whole lot of empty space where he’s supposed to _tongue and toy_ and is unsure of what that entails. 

Evan’s so large he’d go halfway down Jake’s throat and maybe further if he tried. Jake’s not _that_ ambitious. He presses his lips to the leaking, flushed tip— it’s _red—_ and tilts his head. Looks up at Evan, feels his breath hitch. Evidently, Evan’s thought of this before and likes having Jake on his knees. Slowly, almost cautiously, Jake opens his mouth and pushes his tongue underneath Evan’s glans, feels the contour of the engorged flesh, the broad vein running down his underside. He tastes like salt and musk, sweat, the slightly saltiness of runny precum smearing Jake’s tongue. Evan sighs; his chest heaves. The material of his waders creaks. Jake closes his mouth around his glans and sucks. With effort, he can get maybe two and a half inches of what is _much_ longer than that into his mouth, Evan’s head and a bit more. It _would_ be hot if he could get all of Evan into his mouth, press his face to the tough material of the waders and maybe get a reaction from the stoic man above him, but he’d undoubtably choke. 

Evan would like that, he knows, and it would be exceedingly easy for him to shove Jake’s face closer to himself until he has no choice but to accept more of Evan’s length into his mouth— his throat— but he doesn’t. 

He pulls back and Evan lets him. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his _own_ breath picking up because he’d been holding it and hadn’t even noticed. 

“You don’t have to just stand there.” Provoking Evan is one of his favorite pastimes, after all, and it would certainly be easier for Evan to _make_ him do it rather than stumble around and hope he’s doing things right. His cheek is cupped with Evan’s calloused, warm palm, Evan stroking him with a thumb, and once again he says nothing and gently guides Jake’s face back to his cock. This is a situation that Jake’s gotten himself into, and apparently it is also his responsibility to get himself _out._ Get himself _off,_ his mind supplies unbidden, and he doesn’t think it’s that funny so he takes Evan into his mouth again.

Evan keeps his hand on Jake’s cheek as he situates himself and brings his own hand up to help handle Evan’s cock. Evan’s breath rattles around behind his mask, a heavy w _huff_ as Jake stretches his jaw and gets roughly another half inch into his mouth. He runs his tongue along the length of it, other hand stroking in practiced movements. He hums, lightly, and that wins him quite the reaction. Evan’s breath catches and his grip tightens, his hand moves to Jake’s hair and holds him, keeps him from moving away and Jake’s so glad that he’s found something that works he’s not even disgruntled at the forceful gesture.

He’s been getting less and less disgruntled at Evan’s forceful gestures, actually, considering they’re why he spends so much time being a little shit to him in the first place. It’s not the _force_ that bothers him.

It’s something else, but he can’t put his finger on it, and thinking is distracting him when he really wants to be doing a good job anyway, so he hums again to get Evan’s grip to tighten once more.

It takes a few minutes of concentrated effort, and Evan’s hand never leaves his hair but it’s just _there,_ until he feels the body over him tense. He _could_ pull back, but there’s no way he wouldn’t get cum on himself. He closes his eyes and braces. Evans cock twitches hotly in his mouth and his own neglected hardness jumps in response.

It’s not as bad as he expected; he’s never put cum in his mouth before for obvious reasons, and he’d always expected it to taste _bad_ , and while it’s certainly not pleasant it’s… okay. Salty, and thick, and if he doesn’t swallow it down it’ll spill out of his mouth, so he swallows. Just like that. He expected it to be harder; he’s not sure what all the fuss is about. 

Evan finishes spending himself in Jake’s mouth, holding him securely, and finally pulls back. His cock hangs out of his waders and Jake almost wants to get it back into his mouth. Almost. He tries to pull away himself too before Evan decides his performance wasn’t up to snuff.

Evan hasn’t let go of his hair, though, and his grip tightens, and Jake _yanks_ his head back— it does nothing except sting his scalp— and pushes on Evan’s thighs with his hands. Evan lets go, finally, but there’s a quick movement of his leg and a heavy boot makes bruising contact with his chest. Kicks him down, sends him sprawling, knocks the breath out of him and leaves him breathless and disoriented on the ground as Evan _then_ tucks himself away. A moment passes, then another, and Evan leans down to hoist Jake’s unresisting body over his shoulder.

That’s what snaps him out of it— he remembers _oh, yeah, Evan’s a bastard,_ and that was why he’d decided to get in his business and piss him off in the first place and he _did_ see this coming, somewhat, and sets himself to wriggling desperately over Evan’s shoulder. He’s hard in his cargo pants. Evan’s a bastard and he hates him and he’s so hard it hurts and if he had even a modicum less dignity he’d give up on the struggling and just hump Evan’s shoulder until he comes or gets hooked, whichever comes first.

He’s hefted up and jammed down on a meat hook with practiced ease and he can’t help it— he jerks every time, curls up on himself, a scream staying tamped down inside him as the rest of his body protests and his shoulder howls in agony as it’s forced to support his weight. The shock helps, a little bit, dulls it out to a pernicious ache. He still feels like he’s being torn in half and pain radiates from the entrance and exit points of the cruel hook.

Once he’s done spasming with the initial pain, he hangs limply— won’t give Evan the pleasure of watching him struggle and drive himself to a quicker death. He’s going to get back at Evan for this, somehow. Disarm every trap on his property. Wreck them. Make a vicious, inimical little pest of himself.

Evan will catch him eventually; he always does. And when that happens?

Well. Jake supposes he’ll pay for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos appreciated! I love hearing what people think and I love these two!


	6. Pinion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evan doesn’t tear his clothes off— Jake would almost like him to. He undresses him instead, taking his time to unzip Jake’s trail jacket and peel it off, lower it to the floor beside the bed. Does the same with the thin vest, and only then unwraps his scarf. Jake holds still and lets him as he winds it from Jake’s throat to his own hand. It feels strange to surrender the fabric to Evan like that— to have Evan strip it from him instead of taking it off himself. Evan’s hand near his throat. How he has to hold still or else risk choking as the scarf pulls tight, knowing that Evan wouldn’t choke him anyways. He knows that Evan’s got something planned if he wants Jake fully naked, and for once he’s not sure what it could be. Evan’s fingers curl under his shirt and Jake raises his arms without being asked, allowing the grey fabric to slide up and off and join his vest, jacket, and scarf in a pile on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: oh i think im done, time to get into another ship  
> me after writing yet another fic for parkmillan: oh i think im done, time to get into another ship  
> me adding yet another chapter to a fic that's supposed to be finished: oh i think im done, time to get into another ship  
> well.

Evan doesn’t tear his clothes off— Jake would almost like him to. He undresses him instead, taking his time to unzip Jake’s trail jacket and peel it off, lower it to the floor beside the bed. Does the same with the thin vest, and only then unwraps his scarf. Jake holds still and lets him as he winds it from Jake’s throat to his own hand. It feels strange to surrender the fabric to Evan like that— to have Evan strip it from him instead of taking it off himself. Evan’s hand near his throat. How he has to hold still or else risk choking as the scarf pulls tight, knowing that Evan _wouldn’t_ choke him anyways. He knows that Evan’s got something _planned_ if he wants Jake fully naked, and for once he’s not sure what it could be. Evan’s fingers curl under his shirt and Jake raises his arms without being asked, allowing the grey fabric to slide up and off and join his vest, jacket, and scarf in a pile on the floor. 

Now that his top half is fully undressed Evan pushes him with a light hand on his chest, sending him to his back on the bed. It’s built for Evan’s weight; it doesn’t even creak under his fall. Evan lifts his legs one-by-one by the ankles, tugs his boots off, rolls his socks down and takes those off as well, and moves on to his cargo pants. There’s two layers of bandages on his wounded knee, of which he knows Evan is aware, one on the outside and one against Jake’s skin. His knee barely hurts right now because he’s been going easy on it, perhaps in anticipation of something more strenuous than Evan slowly, sensually undressing him in his bed. 

Jake reminds himself that Evan is slow, and steady, and infuriatingly patient, and he will have to be patient as well. He sighs and raises both legs to allow Evan to unbutton his cargo pants and smoothly pull them off. His hand settles— large, and warm— on Jake’s injured knee, the dressing there, and Jake’s breath catches when Evan bends to brush the morbid grin of the mask against the half-soiled wrappings. An apology, almost. Jake might be able to wreck his traps but he’ll _never_ be able to wipe away this permanent mark that Evan’s left on him. 

It’s fitting, in some way, and now that he knows Evan _regrets_ it he’s almost fond of the weeping, half-swollen thing. 

His boxers follow after and join the rest of his clothes. He knows why Evan has such an obsession with denuding him; it’s only confirmation when Evan’s hand rests on his hip, then trails down to his thigh to spread his legs apart. He wraps his hand around Jake’s thigh and strokes the soft skin there with his thumb. Now that he’s got Jake under him and doesn’t have to fight to keep him there, he allows himself to be almost worshipful, and Jake can’t help growing hard at the thought of being _worshipped_ by the man who hates him. 

Evan leans, again, to introduce Jake’s calf to the kiss of his mask, and sets him down to properly lay on his back. Maybe Evan will _fuck_ him now, now that he’s gotten him stripped down to the skin and bones he loves so much.

Evan runs his hand up and down Jake’s inner thigh a few more times and slides inward to cup Jake’s hardening length between his palm and his belly. His hips twitch and that palm presses down. 

Evan allows him to squirm into the touch for about a minute, idly pressing down on occasion, and then withdraws his hand once Jake is fully hard. He sits back on his feet and leans, reaching for the small bedside table, opens the top drawer and feels around for a moment until he’s found what he’s looking for. 

Jake’s curious; he can’t help but look. Evan’s hand blocks his view and soon enough he’s gathering Jake’s wrists in a hand, pressing them above his head to the headboard. 

Predictably— and Evan _has_ predicted it, his grip tightens until Jake can’t slip free in the same moment Jake moves— Jake protests, squirms and tests his grip for a long moment before finding it secure. Evan’s palm is calloused and radiating warmth around his wrists. Jake’s surrounded by the jarring softness of the bed, the blankets smoothed down under him, a pillow Evan has tugged down to rest at the small of his back and prop his hips up, Evan on top of him covering him without necessarily pinning him down. He should feel claustrophobic. There’s a flood of sensation and normally he’d long for the uniform stiff scratchiness of his soiled hiking clothes, shielding him neck-to-ankle. 

Evan’s skin. The weave of the top cover. Evan’s rubbery waders against the inside of his thighs— he’s raised his legs to hitch them around Evan’s waist already. It’s not like the heat of the moment where he’s forced to zero in on a particular sensation, pleasure or pain, or like trials where all his focus goes to running, or picking through wires, or sewing somebody up. He’s got nothing to do but _feel_ as Evan waits patiently for him to stop moving. He does, finally. Lays back into the once-luxurious covers and breathes out in temporary, exasperated surrender. He’s given a long stretch of time that he counts with Evan’s deep, steady breathing before he’s being talked to again, tone hushed.

“That’s not too bad, isn’t it.”

Jake’s continued stillness and quiet is all the answer Evan needs. His free hand brushes Jake’s side, glides over the arch of a rib, traces the line of his arm all the way up to his elbow before splitting off and disappearing into the drawer again. When it comes back, Jake hears the clink of chains and turns his head in time to see short, modified handcuffs dangling from Evan’s meaty fist. The chain is only a few inches long, three or four at most, but longer than one would expect, and the cuffs themselves are wide bands of padded leather with buckles on the outsides. 

It’s not so bad to be held by Evan’s hand, Jake rationalizes to himself. He’s sure the cuffs won’t be much worse. They’re large and clunky-looking but clean and well-made. Evan hasn’t hurt him, and he certainly has only forced him to stay in place because Jake hasn’t told him to stop. Because Jake is holding still and cooperating, for the most part. 

He doesn’t fight as Evan wordlessly secures first one wrist into the cuffs, then the other. Jake could unbuckle them without much issue even one-handed, because Evan has cuffed them in front of him, but if he does that he knows this particular encounter will be over. He tests the strength of the cuffs instead, yanking them and squirming on the bed.

Evan stops again, holds him there so he can’t pitch himself off the bed or injure himself or even catch a finger in the chains. The realization hits that Jake knows what he’s doing— he’s too aroused for his blood to run cold, so he flushes instead. Evan’s _acclimating_ him. Letting him sit with the new sensation, figure out that it isn’t _hurting_ , that it doesn’t even feel bad. He waits until Jake stops pulling against his grip and gives up, laying back with a defeated sigh. Evan waits another long handful of seconds— waiting for him to demand to stop, or to be let up— before continuing. 

The cuffs are padded with the same material Evan uses to pad his traps. It won’t do much to avoid chafing and pinching if Jake is adamant on struggle, but if he’s compliant the constant, steady pressure of the cuffs is almost comforting. The position isn’t too uncomfortable either, save for the cuffs, and even that is only uncomfortable because Jake has struggled. His belly squirms and flips as Evan seizes him by the hips and hauls him up onto his lap, putting him in an almost half-bent position. His shoulders and neck are supported by the pillow that had been under his back. The position leaves him achingly exposed and vulnerable, legs fallen back until his knees hover by his ribs. 

Once again Evan waits until he’s done situating himself, one hand on his hip and the other on his thigh. That hand trails inward, paying fleeting attention to his straining cock. It’s nothing more than the pad of his index finger; the flat of his curled finger, a knuckle. He’s _petting_ Jake more than jacking him off. The sensation is still enough to rouse him from interested, low-level arousal to a hotter, more focused need. He needs Evan to _touch_ him. The chain links clack against each other when he moves his hands, and even though they don’t restrict his movement so severely he’d be worried about it there’s just enough of a limit that his heart picks up. Evan eases him into the pleasure, the callouses on his hands, doesn’t give him any more than that. 

“Touch me.” He startles himself, almost, with how _soft_ his voice has gone. This whole situation is startling. Somehow, Evan’s managed to get him naked, put him on his back, and he’s staying there. Holding himself open and vulnerable, even, letting himself be teased. When did he start permitting this?

He sighs, letting his head drop back against the mattress, and Evan takes that as an invitation to stroke his inner thigh for a moment instead. It’s easy to sink into the sensation now that he’s not fighting it, or chasing more, or squirming around, but it’s still not enough. He lets Evan continue with bare, teasing movements until he couldn’t hold still if he tried.

Except he can, apparently, because whenever Evan pauses or makes as if he’s going to withdraw Jake finds the willpower to stop moving, and the realization that he’s so easy to sway in this state makes him huff. 

“You hated it a few minutes ago,” Evan croons, thumb rubbing up and down Jake’s aching cock. “But you love it now. Don’t you?” 

Jake protests, a strangled keening noise, but it doesn’t _mean_ anything and it doesn’t do anything either. Evan breathes out slowly, heavily, harsh with amusement. He can keep Jake’s legs knocked apart with little effort and does so when Jake attempts to close them, petulant. 

“No, no. Use your words.” 

Evan’s a bastard and he hates him. 

“I hate you,” he bites out, and lets his legs fall open until his knees are hovering by his shoulders. Evan does not appear impressed; his mouth twitches up into a lopsided smirk and he rubs his knuckle along the underside of Jake’s flushed cock. It’s a painful red by this point, reacting to the merciless teasing as Jake struggles to keep his body under control.

“Bold words, saboteur." Despite the chastising tone Jake doesn’t think Evan is that upset at all. 

He doesn’t grace the goad with a response and lays back stiffly to allow Evan to stroke him once more. The slow treatment is unbearable; he feels like he’s going to burst. All his blood is concentrated between his legs with just enough left to make his face red and hot. Evan is _torturing_ him. 

After yet another minute— more, if Jake had to guess— of the treatment, he notices that he’s rolling his hips into it. It’s the slightest movements, an almost involuntary seeking-out of the pleasure that Evan’s giving him but not _enough_ , and Evan’s likely already noticed and was just waiting for him to catch on, because when he rocks up into Evan’s slow caress too enthusiastically Evan puts an end to it.

“Settle.” Evan’s hand pauses at the base of his cock. He’s holding it with two thick fingers, just enough pressure that if Jake bucks into the touch he can win faint sparks of pleasure. If he does, he knows Evan will draw his hand away and wait until he’s _settled,_ and he’s learned his lesson, so he glares at Evan and reluctantly forces himself to lay still. He knows why Evan put a pillow under his shoulders now. He’d be aching otherwise. That’s enough to chill him, just a bit, because how _long_ is Evan planning on keeping him like this?

He cracks a little more, mouth falling open to pant, noises slipping out. They’re tiny, restrained whines but Evan has to be able to hear them. His thumb rubs encouraging circles at the base of Jake’s cock. Why won’t he just _touch_ him? His brows knit and he fights the urge to wiggle his hips and force Evan to act.

He _will_ act, and it won’t be to give Jake what he wants. Jake has to earn it. Evan takes mercy on his half-open mouth and pinched brows, staring down at him with the reserved air of a relaxing predator. He’s been looking at Jake like he wants to _eat_ him, actually, and that makes Jake’s cock jump because at this point he’ll _let_ him if it just means he’ll be allowed to come.

“You’re getting what’s coming to you,” Evan tells him. His thumb continues lightly stroking up Jake’s cock with firm, steady motions, starting in the soft, sensitive area at the base of his shaft and gliding up the underside to curve over his glans. It’s barely enough. It feels good, and if Evan only closed his hand around Jake’s cock he’s sure he could come from it, but Evan is _not_ doing that and leaving him instead to hold hopelessly still and whine. “And you won’t get any more until you beg.”

It’s unfair and cruel, is what it is, Evan smiling before Jake even balks at the suggestion because he knows he will. He’s going to break down and beg, too, and they both know that. 

He cracks after only a few more minutes, control of his voice slipping away from him and into breathy, broken moaning. Evan won’t give him more. He’s holding stock-still and letting him do whatever he wants, and still all he does is slowly trace the underside of his cock. 

“Please. Evan, _please_.” 

He tries to sound reluctant, but can’t even manage that. Evan gives him more, just a little, and it sends a shock of pleasure up his spine. He spreads his legs as far as they’ll go, whining. “Stop teasing!” 

“Tell me what you want,” Evan prompts. He doesn’t stop the slow, constant upward stroke. Jake’s _not_ about to cry, but he thinks Evan would be pleased if he did. 

“I want you to make me come!” 

“And…?” Evan’s enjoying this too much. Jake hates him. Need and desperation bubble up in his chest, chasing the teasing touches along his length.

“Please! Please make me come. Please, please, please.” He has to stop after that, panting, and he _is_ tearing up out of frustration and want. 

“Shh.” Evan hushes him, pushing the stretch of his good leg. His hand closes around Jake’s cock fully— _finally—_ and strokes him in tight, hard pumps. “I’ll take care of you.”

Jake is _not_ quiet. He’s been so keyed up and tortured that it only takes twenty seconds of the rough treatment for him to yowl and come all over Evan’s hand, mind whiting out. It’s all he wanted. Evan strokes him through it, talking to him, but he’s too caught up in the sensations to pick up more than snippets— _pretty little boy_ , and _perfect_ , and _so good for me_ — until he falls limp, panting. Spent. Evan’s grip loosens and he gently pets Jake’s oversensitive length until he squirms and brings his legs together. Slides off of Evan’s lap. His body is shaking with it.

“I always knew I’d be the one to break your iron will.” Evan’s pleased as anything, smiling down at him. It’s at once sobering and reassuring, because of course. Of _course_. There’s no point in Evan being kind for kindness’ sake; for soft touch, or kisses, even for the padding on the inside of the cuffs. Evan hasn’t taken his mask off this time, either. _You want to play this game now_ echoes in the back of his head. It’s just a game, is all, and Evan’s won this one. 

Still, Jake’s heart is sinking, aching, and he feels again like a small, wounded thing and he can’t pinpoint _why_. 

He yanks his wrists apart and wins nothing but the snap of chain. Evan sighs and reaches above Jake’s head to snag it with a finger and drag his hands down, unbuckling the cuffs, giving Jake’s wrists a rub to make sure he’s only bruised. 

He waits until Evan sets the cuffs down back in their drawer to surge upwards, straddling Evan’s lap and pushing him down. He’s not strong enough to budge Evan if he doesn’t want to be moved, but evidently Evan’s still playing because he allows Jake to push him to his back. His hand settles on Jake’s hip and hauls him upward so Jake can keep a grip on his shoulders. 

“What is it, saboteur?” 

The first order of business is pulling the mask off. Evan keeps his hands where they are and lets Jake slide it off, setting it to the side of the bed. Then he reaches back to seek out Evan one-handed through the rubbery material of his waders. Evan’s hard in the waders, and Jake’s glad for that. If he wasn’t even hard he’s not sure how he’d feel, and that’s what tilts him from a glimmer to full-blown realization as he fishes him out, that he wants Evan, and wants Evan to want _him_ too. 

There’s a difference, now. He used to seek out Evan— provoke him, make him angry— to feel wrecked and used, and that had been the arrangement, and he had enjoyed it. He doesn’t know when he started wanting to be _desired_.

Jake Park, on principle, is not a man that people desire. 

He doesn’t know why it’s managed to set him off so badly. Evan lets him do as he will— he’s sore and sensitive from afterglow, but he feels like he has to get Evan inside him. 

Evan’s one lucky bastard that he doesn’t have it in him to tease, isn’t he. He leans over to snag the lube from his cargo pants, ruthlessly dripping the cold fluid over Evan’s cock. It gets all over the front of his waders— he’s not going to be happy about that.

 _Good_ , Jake thinks viciously, and pumps Evan a few times to spread the slick evenly over his length. Evan’s shifting under him, making low, gratifying moans as Jake preps him. For as long as Jake had been teased, Evan was also holding off, he realizes, and he’s not going to last long at all. That suits Jake just fine; it’ll spare him from having to accept that he’s bitten off more than he can chew. It takes a few movements, some shifting, and he’s fairly kneeling on Evan’s sides to get a good angle, but eventually Evan’s head slides past his rim. He’s huge, and Jake never forgets that but is perhaps too confident. The stretch stings. So soon after his own climax, all he’s getting out of it are Evan’s noises and the heave of his chest as he forces himself to give Jake free rein. 

He sets his hands down on Evan’s chest, rolling his hips experimentally. He’s never been on top; always been caged between Evan and the workbench, or the bed, or the kitchen counter that one time. He likes this new position. Whether Evan does or not doesn’t concern him that much, since Evan is extremely capable of moving him bodily if he _doesn’t_ , and the comparative amount of control he has while balanced on Evan’s waist is so much more than he’s accustomed to. 

Evan’s hands settle on his hips to keep him from pitching off, and then to encourage him to move. It’s quick; he lasts two minutes, maybe three, gripping Jake’s hips with near-bruising force. Jake’s reminded that he’s not the only one who was deprived, though Evan certainly endured it more voluntarily than Jake did, and he can’t bring himself to be too upset now that he’s got Evan spilling inside of him. 

He pulls off, collapsing on top of Evan with his head on his chest, legs tangled. Evan’s hand settles on his back. The spilled lube on his waders smears all over Jake’s belly. 

He expected Evan to roll him off, leave him there, and clean up; he doesn’t, though. His hand strokes down Jake’s back. Combs through the hair at the base of his neck. They’re laying entirely the wrong way, and the discarded pillow is somewhere around Jake’s knees, but neither of them are moving. Evan continues to pet him. He breathes in, and out, and listens for Evan doing the same, the both of them warm and sated. Evan cranes his neck. Shifts Jake up a little bit higher, presses a kiss to the top of his head since Jake won’t look up at him for a proper one, less because he’s being petulant and more because he’s half-asleep already.

He drifts off, pressed against Evan’s warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> evan: tries to dirty talk  
> jake: completely misses the point but evan gets topped so it was worth it  
> Feel free to leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed this fic! Feedback fuels me and I love getting comments and hearing what people think.


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